


Self Inflicted, His Perdition

by Castielchester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Burning, Castiel and Mental Health Issues, Cutting, Depictions of Cutting, Depressed Castiel, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Fallen Castiel, Food Restriction, Human Castiel, Hurt Castiel, M/M, Pain addiction, Purging, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, eventual destiel, just tagging everything so no one gets triggered, self-burning, self-hate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-04-03 10:52:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4098274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielchester/pseuds/Castielchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Castiel becomes addicted to the one thing that makes us human, pain. [Huge trigger warning for being solely centered around self-harm]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wasteland

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first Supernatural fic to be posted on here, I've been writing them for myself but I wanted to see how you all would take it. This is just a prologue, just to gauge how it is taken, if it is something you guys like then I will add/write more. I want to throw out a warning and reiterate that this story centers around Castiel’s struggle with self-harm which will get more graphic as it moves on. I changed a bit from the actual canon story, Cas never got booted from the bunker.

_Heave the silver, hollow silver, piercing through another victim. Turn and tremble, be judgmental_

_Ignorant to all the symbols._

* * *

 

Red

 

_black_

 

Trickling

 

_oozing_

 

 _Pain_. The one thing Castiel could not fully grasp the meaning of until he fell. Wings burning. Eyes stinging. Throat constricting. The pain had enveloped him; dotted his vision with black and shook all the way to his bones. Grinding. Tearing. _Screaming_. Hands grasped at him through the dark, squeezing his throat, grasping his wrists and dragging him down. Down. _Down_. It was excruciating at first, unbearable, leaving him to thrash about in the Winchesters arms, biting down on his tongue till the blood ran warm down his chin. Those times had merely been a shock, angel bodies had not been made to sustain such torment, but now he envied the humans who had been able to experience the sweet satisfaction before he. _Pain_. He began to crave it, after the times in the bunker, eyes flickering over every sharp, jagged surface with an urge so strong it almost made his mouth water. Times like these, sitting on the edge of the bed holding out his milky white arm, gripping his razor, were divine. _Sacred_. Castiel’s piece of control, after his wings, after _falling_ ; he had the power to drain himself of the tainted blood that coursed through his system.

Of course hiding it from the Winchesters had been another story, they doted on him, especially Dean, and Castiel just didn’t have the heart to tell the man of his new obsession. No, he reveled in hiding it, being in control over his little secret; the idea of having to hide his bloody blades, wear long sleeves in the hottest of weather, it all excited Castiel. As an angel his secrets tended to be just the opposite, but now it was his, _his_ , and no one else could take that away from him.

His razor had come from Dean, personally, making it more special. As the hunter handed him the small stick claiming, _you’re getting rugged so shave_ , Castiel had been confused, copying as he watched the man do it as well, nicking himself on the throat. A small cut, nothing to fret over, but Dean had quickly placed a cloth over it and stopped the small flow; not catching the blown pupils of his fallen angel, the ideas that began to swim through his head.

                                                                                                          -x-

Castiel slowly opens the door, gazing around the dark hallway, hearing a television on but other than that no commotion, so he quickly shuts the door, huddling on the bed, cross-legged. He pulls out the sharp object from the small box he'd managed kept hidden, gripping it in his hand so tight it gouges his palm. The room enclosing him is a nice one, the walls a dark blue, practically black. _Black. Like your wings. Before you fell. Befor-_

“No!” Castiel muttered, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head, as if to rattle his thoughts clear. Opening his palm he stares wide eyed at the blood; he’d never really paid attention to it as an angel, it never spilled from him long enough, so he'd desynthesized himself to it, turned away from it before, but now he savored it, craved the spill of it. With a wrist stretched out taut in front of him he places the small object to the flesh there, already littered with old and fresh wounds. Although being rather askew about his arm they all seemed to fit a neat little pattern, some long and jagged and others short but deep; each of them wiped clean of blood and left with puffed skin and an angry red signature. They were _beautiful_. Castiel had seen a lot of things as an angel, the most extravagant of gardens, gorgeous nations constructed by the hands of workers, the home of God _himself_ , but nothing compared to the beauty he found in the wounds, in the blood; as if his body were a blank canvas waiting to be painted and prodded.

Finding a spot was as meticulous as trying to find a seat on the bus, eyes scanning over alabaster flesh in an attempt to catch the perfect vein. As he places the razor to his wrist, sure to add the right amount of pressure, too little and you'll have nothing but a little nick, so he waited, letting gravity push the weapon down until -  _RIP_  - he slides it across with shaky finger tips. For a moment nothing happens but the appearance of a long red line across his radial and ulnar artery, but then the crimson liquid peeks out and spills over each side. This is the moment Castiel feels the adrenaline pump through his veins, he needed more,  _more_. So each cut after that is longer or deeper, it doesn't matter what, just that it's erratic, splitting his skin open at the seams and hissing in delight. His eyes staring with the utmost concentration as the flesh opened up, crimson tears leaking out, silently making their way down. He slashed greedily, as if each cut just wasn't enough, not enough to satiate his hunger for repentance. Castiel slowly felt the throb overtake his senses, blowing through his head like a drug would.

The way humans felt pain was like nothing he'd ever dreamt of, nothing he could have fathomed before, and now it was all his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from a song called Wasteland by 10 Years


	2. Evil Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Castiel becomes addicted to the one thing that makes us human, pain. [Huge trigger warning for being solely centered around self-harm]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may be triggering to those who are or have suffered from some kind of eating disorder so please tread carefully, I do not want to trigger anyone; your safety is very important to me.  
> Many thanks to those who've read and commented, I hope to continue. Thanks again ~

_Hold it together, birds of a feather_

_Nothing but lies and c_ _rooked wings_

* * *

 

It is a spectacular feeling, the one of being purely empty inside. As an angel Castiel never had the urge or need to eat but he had when the Winchesters had prompted him to _try this_ , but now his body depended on it, _needed_ it, and so he did the right thing, denied it. He didn’t deserve to nourish the vessel he was trapped in. He was not worthy. 

Hiding his eating habits was harder than any of the wounds because the Winchesters had insisted on them all eating together; it had started out as Castiel claiming a stomach ache or some ailment his new body just wasn’t used to, but that hadn’t worked for long. He found himself most nights bent over the shower, fingers shoved down his throat and stomach heaving down into the drain, purging himself of sustenance. He did not deserve such a gift.

As Castiel perched on his bed, reciting Enochian chants he no longer had power for, there was a knock. He took a minute to answer, removing his hand from rubbing the raw pain on his opposite arm. “ _Yes_?” Dean walked in with a small, worried smile drawn taut on his face, “Hey Cas” His voice was a tad more apprehensive than Castiel had remembered. “Hello Dean Winchester” the fallen angel turned back to the wall he had been keeping focus on, he found it easier than looking at the pity on the hunter’s face before him. “I made dinner so...I was wondering if you wanted to come eat, you haven’t ate with us in weeks so I was just wondering…” Castiel swallows hard, shaking his head a tad which only succeeds in making him dizzy, “I am not hungry Dean” his stomach takes this moment to voice its opposition to the hunter, Castiel is unsure what his vessel is doing. “Dammit Cas” he shakes his head moving closer, “You need to eat. You’re human now, that sound? Yeah that’s your body telling you you’re hungry” He tries to ignore the slight flinch of the fallen seraph, who looks up at him miserably. _You do not deserve to eat._  

Dean grabs Castiel’s wrist, pulling him up, freezing a moment and shaking his head. “Jesus Cas, I shouldn't have to be _telling_ you this…” Dean didn’t understand why the man didn’t just eat, he knew he could, he had seen him do it before, “C’mon” Castiel’s eyes fall on Dean’s shoes and he shuffles out behind him, his head spinning hard. He tapped his fingers against his hip to stop their shaking, vision going spotty, he didn’t come back to until he felt strong arms grip him and hold him from falling straight to the ground. “Cas, _Cas_ ” the angel straightens up looking around, blinking away his vertigo. “I’m okay. I’m okay” He’s trying to convince himself. 

                                                                                                        -/-

Castiel couldn't sit still at the table, as if he's on trial and the Winchesters are about to convict him of the most heinous of crimes. The ex angel squints at the wall behind Sam's head, groping around within his cloudy head for an excuse. He would not allow himself the pleasure of satiating his hunger, he was not worthy of such a feat. Castiel knows eating is a carnal desire, birthed from gluttony, and he hopes this could be one way to display forgiveness to his Father, to show him that he could still be strong enough to follow his inspired word and he'd be damned if the Winchesters would ruin that.

It had been a couple weeks now that Dean had sat the seraph down and pointed toward a plate of food and told him pointedly,  _you're not leaving this damn kitchen till that plate is clean._ Castiel had never felt so much contempt and anger toward the older hunter before, it frightened him, but under his scrutinizing gaze he slowly ate all of the food. It made him feel disgustingly full and revoltingly satisfied. He _hated_ it. He'd excused himself to the bathroom, vision pulsing and skin itching; he had to do something to rid himself of the sustenance, _You are not worthy, you are not worthy of this feeling._ He didn't realize what he was doing until he was hands and knees in the shower, water running down his back in an attempt to keep his gagging quiet; two fingers held to his lips, hesitatingly, until they were jammed to the back of his throat, prodding until his body responded, stomach spasming, throat expelling the intrusion and allowed the food to come back up. His eyes pricked with tears and breathing came out in short spurts, attempting to make sense of what had just happened, mulling it over had caused him to hunker over again and puke the rest of his bile down the drain. 

Thrown from the memory and back in the present Castiel barely picks up Dean mentioning something about the food in front of him, but the words are fuzzy, dripping into his ears like syrup. Finally looking down at the plate in front of him his stomach twists in knots, like his intestines are being put through a blender. _Hamburger._ He vaguely registers that this used to be his favorite food, shaking his head slightly as if to reprimand himself, looking back up to the others in the room. Dean is chomping down on a piece of meat, tearing it with his incisors, chewing as if he were eating a brick, his brother mirrors the same, and this makes the former angel's stomach twist up more. He can't find it in himself to even move his arms from their spot at his sides, he simply gapes down at the food on his plate.

He would never admit it out loud but he loved the way being empty felt. Relished in the fact that he had  _that_ control; although every one around him was pushing him this way and that he had that power over his vessel. Just as the razor made him feel, not allowing himself food gave him a rush that was incomparable; the pang of hunger as it pinched his stomach and made his muscles feel as if they themselves were trembling, begging him for energy; he loved it. The blurry vision, the way he would stand and it felt like all his blood would rush straight to his head, it was all he deserved, he deserved to be punished in such a way. 

"It's not going to attack ya Cas, eat up."

That was not an option. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from a song called Evil Angel by Breaking Benjamin


	3. Lost It All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Castiel becomes addicted to the one thing that makes us human, pain. [Huge trigger warning for being solely centered around self-harm]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God this chapter is a mess. It's 4am and I'm having a lot of these thoughts so I projected it. Sorry if this seems scattered and terrible. I will make up for it.

_I ruled the world, with these hands I shook the heavens to the ground._

_Then I lost it all, and who can save me now?_

 

* * *

 

Castiel held the flame close to his face, letting it flicker just before his lips; watching it dance with subtle admirance. It was confident, it had nothing to lose, just had to quiver about and wait for the next thing to lay claim to. Castiel envied this flame, blindly it could go about destroying, not necessarily on its own free will, but with a liberation the fallen seraph couldn’t put mind to. A fleeting thought passed through him, a bit of an internal remark stating, _how ironic is it that an angel is burning himself_. He remembers the heat all too well, remembers descending into hell to pull Dean out; he had been able to see Dean’s soul, so pure no matter how tainted he believed it to be, but even in his haste he was still able to feel the heat against his flesh, prickling his hairs and making his cheeks flush. He had not liked it then, but Castiel felt like he’d surprised himself more everyday.

He let go of the little lever that kept the flame erect and watched it dissipate, then looked down to the charred skin of his arm, mostly he’d taken up heating a piece of metal and pushing it down until his flesh melted around it, but other times, desperate times, he merely flicked the lighter on and pressed it straight, letting the smell of his burning skin fill his nose and make his eyes prickle with tears.

Castiel could feel it growing stronger in him, the urge to cause more damage, more of the pain he _deserved_ ; nothing felt like it would ever be enough; the blood that trailed down his wrists, painting him crimson, the emptiness that filled his stomach and made him dizzy and chilled no matter the temperature, it all felt like a futile attempt to gain penance. Castiel still lay awake at night, eyes staring daggers into the ceiling, watching each of his brothers and sisters die, replaying all of the people he had let down, all of it over and _over_ as if the back of his eyelids had been permanently seared with the images. It was only once he had found himself, knees to the floor and hands clasped together praying for forgiveness, the silence that followed gave him the answer. He was totally, irrevocably _alone_.

 -x-

Castiel sat at the kitchen table alone, his mind miles and miles away from the place he actually was in. Dean and Sam had gone on a hunting trip, leaving him to stew in his thoughts. He wasn’t quite sure how much more he could take, only able to sit and think about everything he had lost, think about all the walls he’d let crumble down around him, and how he desperately tried, fingers numb and bleeding, to rebuild them.

He shook his head and flipped the lighter around his calloused palm feeling the need to sob but knowing he would be unable to do so, he was sure he’d cried every tear he had. He wanted to scream, scream how sorry he was, how utterly and desperately broken he was and _dammit somebody please help me_! But the rational part of his brain knew he couldn’t let that happen, couldn’t let anybody that close, couldn’t let himself be put back together. He did not _deserve_ that.

He bites his lip hard and digs his nails into his wrist, catching a new cut and prying inside of it to find that momentary relief, he _didn’t_ , and _fuck_ if that wasn’t enough to send him over the edge than he didn’t know what was holding him together.

 He thought about running, no destination, just _running_ , running until his legs shook violently, lungs burned terribly and thoughts were no longer able to abuse him; but he didn’t move, instead he continued to shiver in his chair, letting his mind tear him piece by piece; _Castiel you worthless, worthless excuse for flesh. How could you? How could you?_ He wanted to whimper out an apology, but his throat was thick with emotion. With yearning. He needed to feel the familiar rush of pain, needed to remind himself of his place, of what he _deserved_. Standing so suddenly sent a rush of heat and swirls through his head and he vaguely made out the notion that coupled with his shaking hands he might not be able to go _all the way down the hall_ and grab his razor, and his fingers were far too jittery to hold onto his trusty lighter, with those realizations Castiel choked out a bitter laugh, shaking his head at the idea that he couldn’t even hurt himself properly.

He tries to calm himself, tries to quell the self-loathing for just a moment to let him think clearly about what his next action is going to be, but this thoughts are racing far to quickly and images are bursting through his brain like fireworks; pictures of blood, death and betrayal that he had known too well. Images of what he was capable of, of what his hands had done. 

So he just looks down at the trembling limbs; the hands that had gripped Dean and rose him from perdition. The hands that had rebuilt a righteous man. The hands that had taken down armies. The hands that could kill with a mere touch. The hands that claimed to be God. The hands that had lost him everything; _his_ hands, he thought, were sin incarnate. They broke him as they had broken others, they held the razor to his flesh and helped with each drop of blood. _Dear god_ these _hands_ ; Castiel rushes towards the gas stove, swiping all of the pots and pans that adorned it, throwing the dials until the blue flame licked up high, and without ceremony throws them in each flame, hoping to burn away each and every impurity. To burn away the very hands that had shook heaven to the ground.

He actually _hears_ it first, the sizzle of his flesh as it began to blister, his brain felt so heavy as his other senses caught up to him. The pungent smell of burning hair and epidermis almost made him recoil but he quickly reminded himself that this was no less than he deserves and he was going to stay there till the damn murderous tools were nothing but ash.

He watches with wide eyes as the skin begins to char and a few of the blisters make a sick _pop!_ and ooze blood, looking like deep, blood filled craters. The skin turns a dark, angry red but also takes on a yellow warped color making them looking mutated and ugly and soon his knees shake as the skin seems to lift, blacken and curl like the edges of burnt wallpaper. Time seems at a standstill and it isn’t until his hands are being smacked away and he’s being pushed into the wall that he comes back too and realizes he isn’t staring at the burning of his hands but rather the magnificent green eyes of Dean Winchester.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and Lyrics come from the song, Lost It All by Black Veil Brides. (Which I recommend listening to cause it reminds me of Cas so much)


	4. Ashes of Eden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Castiel becomes addicted to the one thing that makes us human, pain. [Huge trigger warning for being solely centered around self-harm]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, I hope you all understand and will forgive me. Thank you for all your support. BE WARNED: I am starting to get into plot, while the other chapters where just little peeks into Castiel's habits. Plot ensues. I hope you understand that while I will incorporate Destiel fluff Castiel won't be automatically cured because Dean holds his hand and says he loves him. I want Castiel's slow progression to be shown. Depression and self-hate is debilitating, not something you can automatically jump up from and I would like you all to know you're not alone if you struggle with it. And with that I will leave these because you're all important and you all matter and i love you.  
> Suicide Hotline: 1 (800) 273-8255  
> Trans Lifeline: (877) 565-8860  
> LGBT Lifeline: 800-246-7743
> 
> Warnings: Depictions of cutting, suicidal implications, Castiel just having bad self-loathing thoughts all around and horrible formatting

 

_Will the faithful be rewarded, when we come to the end?_

_Will I miss the final warning, from the lie that I have lived?_

_I can see the soul within, and I am not worthy_

_I am not worthy  of this._

* * *

 

 

 No amount of pain could make up for the expression on Dean Winchester’s face, the way he looked at Castiel made the ex-angel’s stomach lurch violently. Castiel wanted to say something, give some kind of excuse for his behavior but he couldn’t, what could he _possibly_ say that would quell the look that Dean was giving him? A look that held nothing but remorse and worse, _blame_. Dean was _blaming_ himself for what Castiel had done, and yet, he didn’t even know the beginning. It felt like hours before the elder hunter actually spoke up, his voice escaping him for a moment, leaving his lips to move uselessly until he could call upon it, “ _C-Cas_?” his emerald eyes move up and down, from Castiel’s charred hands to his ocean eyes, “What-What the _fuck_?!”

 _Naturally_ , Castiel thought, that was the eldest Winchesters mode of operation, hide any kind of vulnerable emotion with anger; Castiel let his eyes fall upon Dean and then to Sam, whose look the ex-angel can’t decipher. “I…” What could he say? What could he _possibly_ say that would make _whatever_ this situation looked like to the Winchester’s okay? He couldn’t fathom coming up with any kind of lie in the state he is in so he just swallows hard and pushes forward, “I-I need to use the bathroom!”

 -x-

He doesn’t allow himself the sanctity of falling apart until he knows for sure the Winchesters aren’t going to follow him; he goes to press his hand to his mouth but is jolted with pain as the burns are rubbed the wrong way, so he resorts to just biting his lip and waiting. The room is spinning, just like his stomach, his mind, like a mantra repeating _how stupid can you be? Now they know! They know what you do! You stupid, ignorant swine!_

 He crumbles to the tiled floor, unwillingly letting the tears that pooled his eyes fall. They stream down his face as if to take pleasure in his heightened humiliation. _Oh how the mighty have fallen Castiel!_ He wishes he could just come right out and tell Dean, _I’m hurting_ , but he knows he would get so lost in his emotions, losing the ability to even express _why_ or _how_ he was hurting, and, really, it just made more sense to slice himself open. _Because it’s what I deserve._

He doesn’t allow himself the solace of wallowing any longer, picking himself up off the bathroom floor on shaky legs and taking deep, rehabilitating breaths. He feels a tinge of pain and looks down at his hands, they look revolting and he can’t help but recoil and feel relief at the same time. He wishes his entire, ugly body looked the same way.

He feel's a small rise of fear clog his airway at the thought of Dean finding his razors, finding out all of the other things he’d grown so addicted to. He felt his cheeks burn hot with shame when he realized he just didn’t want Dean to take it away from him; the pain was _his_ , it was the only thing that truly, deeply was his, and he would not, _could_ not, let that be taken away from him too.

Swiftly, agonizingly, he scours through the cabinet to find some gauze to wrap his charred hands in, finding any kind of touch excruciating, and not in the good way; little whispers in his head telling him what he did was wrong, he shouldn’t have burnt his hands to that extreme, but that's drown out by the louder, abusive voice that screams in his eardrums till they're ringing, _You deserved it, you worthless, powerless heap! Do it again! You deserve nothing but pain._

Castiel nodded, “I know. I know.”

 -x-

“Should I even ask?” The voice is gruff and laced with an indiscernible emotion that causes Castiel to whip around so quickly his neck hurts, thanking whatever that he’d shoved his box back under his pillow before Dean saw. Castiel felt his mouth go dry, of course he’d want an explanation, “I-I” he sighs because _dammit_ he really didn’t feel like talking, his body was shaking despite the high temperatures, and he felt fatigue literally coursing throughout his veins. He shook his head, holding up the gauze, “Help?” Dean eyes him suspiciously, nods slowly and kneels in front of the ex-angel, taking the medical wrap and fixing it snug against the burnt crisp of a hand in front of him; it’s no secret Dean isn’t good with words so he works in silence, quirking an eyebrow at the tremor in his friend’s hands he hadn’t noticed before. When he has the burns all patched up he stretches and then eyes Castiel, trying to throw on a casual tone, “So, uh, are you alright man?”

Castiel wants to laugh, no seriously, laugh his ass off and he actually does elicit a small huff of a chuckle, because, _do I fucking look okay to you?_ “Yes Dean. I am fine. Now could you please vacate my room? I am feeling a bit fatigued and would like to lay down” He tries to find emotion to put into the statements but can’t, he feels so… _empty_ inside that he can’t even fake being content. Dean swallows, surprising Castiel by taking his hand oh so gently, “Because you know if you need anything we’re here right? Me, Sam?” He licks his dry lips, “So are you _sure_ you’re okay?” Castiel feels himself mentally groping around for composure, his insides raging like a tempest on the high sea, his brain screaming back and forth and everywhere and it’s just _too loud_ as he squeezes his eyes shut willing his inner turmoil aside and every fiber of his being reaching out and desperately trying to grasp for the hunter in front of him and scream at him

_I am not okay! I have not been okay! For the love of god do something!_

But he internally beats those parts of himself down, his own worst bully, yelling at them that they don’t fucking _deserve_ help and, as he peels his eyes open to stare into the emerald ones in front of him, he feels the last pang of guilt at lying before his voice echoes through the silence,

 “I am fine.”

 

-x-

 

_“You’re nothing Castiel. Look at you. Look at yourself” lines and lines of angels. His brothers and sisters. Disgust etched over their faces, shaking their heads, turning away as he calls out, “P-please! Stay with me! Please don’t” he chokes on the tears that seem to torrent down his face, “Please don’t leave me!” But they’re all turned, walking away, even Dean, Dean who is leading the line, shaking his head, looking at Castiel like he’s the scum of the earth as he holds his arm out trying to reach for him, “P-Please, Dean. Please” But he can’t cry out any longer, the darkness falls all over him, the air thinning, nothing to look at but the endless blackness inside his head, just the vague whispers of people he used to know. He looks around helplessly, nothing, there’s nothing left for him. Nothing left at all._

Gasping

 

       _Nothingness_

 

Choking

      

      _Darkness_

 

Drowning

 

      _Emptiness_

 

Castiel’s eyes fly open, chest heaving up and down for oxygen frantically, mouth gaping open in unanswered cries. For a moment he’s still in the darkness, feeling the crackle of electricity of absent bodies, floating entities, but his eyes adjust and fall on the moonlight pouring through his window, he’s awake. It was a dream.

He feels unsolicited tears trail down his face because _it was so real_ , and he can feel his skin humming with the horrible, vast abyss crawling beneath it as he fumbles for his razor to cut it open and let it spill out around him. Gripping it within his wrapped hands and flinging his shirt off to expose his flesh; dirty, blasphemous skin; _how_ , he wonders, looking at his scars, _had this skin ever been considered sacred before?_ Before the beautiful marks of self-hatred had littered it; how he loathe to think about it before it had been marred to perfection. Long and thin, small and deep, scattered hopelessly up and down each wrist from tip to shoulder. He places the sharp blade to his hip and lets out a sigh of adrenaline, because _fuck_ he needs it so bad. Ripping it across quickly, hesitating, bringing it back down in one swift motion, each time adding pressure, mouth slightly agape as he watches the flesh split right open and ooze out the horrible substance that keeps his heart pumping; albeit, _this_ , being what made him truly feel alive, like a junkie chasing his next high. He slices each hip until the pain in his hands cause his razor to slip right out of his grasp and land with a graceful _thump_ to the floor.

And suddenly it’s too much, because he can’t even _hold_ his razor right now and his muscles feel slippery, like someone injected him with a sedative. Memories flooding back after his high dissipates until he’s left in a heap on the floor sobbing into the crook of his elbow, biting down as to keep himself quiet, only recoiling when he tastes blood on his tongue. The emotions inside of him are swirling around as the darkness oozes from his veins and rushes over him, suffocating him with an absolute  _void._ He just wants it to stop and that emotion in itself is what startles his eyes back open, listening to the small whispers that skim over his earlobe and make him flinch,  _If you were dead...this would all be over._ He shakily stands, feeling his chest restricted by the invisible weight and implications those words hold.  _  
_

The pain had always been sufficient enough, had always felt like little slivers of chances at redemption, but the yearning for something more started to ease it's way inside and Castiel feared it had been borne from the void he dared cut from his body, feared what that meant. That deep down, he had _already known;_  that's how he would gain redemption, through his own death, and  _dammit_ that became more and more clear as he shuffled to the side of his room, opening the ceiling to floor window that veiled the night, and eased his way up on the ledge, gripping each side of the wall for support as he looked down, choking on his own breath as he sees  _nothing._ Nothing but darkness that held its arms out and offered comfort and happiness if he just  _jumped._

Castiel holds his arms out, feeling the wind whip against his face and ruffle his hair and _God,_ It's the closest thing to flying he's felt in forever, and as he holds his arms out he swears he can feel his wings behind him, massive and graceful _until_

_B_

_u_

_r_

_n_

_i_

_n_

_g_

_They're crashing around him as he's falling faster and faster to earth, chucked out from heaven like a child's plaything, the smell of his feathers burning and filling his lungs with a horrible smell he knows he'll never forget. They burn all the way down, the wind hitting his face too fast, stealing his breath as he closes his eyes and braces himself for impact, thinking about nothing but emerald eyes and leather jackets._

He doesn't let the memory continue as he opens his eyes in horror and sees the same blackness he had once before crashed into. Grinding. Tearing.  _Screaming._ The way his body had felt like it shattered to a million pieces when he hit the ground and suddenly he's scrambling back in horror because he never wants to experience that again. He rushes to the other side of his room, shaking his head from the stupor he had been in, shoving his trembling hands in his hair as he realizes what he could have just done. _If he was going to go,_ He agrees, _he would have to some other way._

Collapsing on the bed, no longer able to stand on his shaking legs he lets out an undignified noise, swallowing a lump because every time he tries to imagine a proper way to go it always ends in emerald eyes and leather jackets. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from the song Ashes of Eden by Breaking Benjamin.


	5. Devil's Choir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Castiel becomes addicted to the one thing that makes us human, pain. [Huge trigger warning for being solely centered around self-harm]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello mortals. Thanks for reading and keeping with this, I really do appreciate it. I know I don't update quickly but I like to take my time with these and write them as real as possible; I will never abandon this so do not worry about that.  
> I just feel like I need to do it justice you know? So I want to make everything as real and relatable as possible. I feel like I'm babbling. 
> 
> But anywho, Dean is finally coming into light about what is happening within Castiel's head, realizing perhaps his angel isn't doing as well as he thought he was. And again, Dean isn't doing to magically come in and heal him, it'll be a process, and if you guys know me you know I love angst. Please excuse the errors and wonky spacing, it's 4am. I will go back and edit it
> 
> Anyway, Thanks again! TRIGGERS: Suicidal thoughts, depression and mentions of self-harm. EDIT: someone wanted me to tag the vomiting scene. So it's graphic I guess? So here: Depictions of vomiting as well

_Raise another broken glass to failure, a simple promise of a crimson savior_

_Take a look into the life you're leaving, I promise you_

_this isn't pain you're feeling._

 

* * *

 

 

Dean Winchester isn’t a man of many emotional words, as it’s known; words of praise or sadness are usually locked in the darkest spot of his head, beaten down until they make themselves invisible. And it’s near impossible that he finds himself _feeling_ so many emotions at once. But something about deep, twilight blue eyes has him breaking all the Winchester-esque rules. The elder hunter feels _fear_ beating at his lungs, _what had he just witnessed? Castiel surely knew how to use a goddamned stove enough to not put his hands directly in the flame._ He chokes down _guilt_ that threatens to spill over because, _if something is going on with him I should have known._ But mostly he feels a deep, aching _sadness_ ; _He’s hurting and I can’t do one goddamned thing about it._

Dean knows it can’t be easy, being an angel, being a magnificent, powerful creature thrust into the pitiful body of an average human. But he couldn’t imagine Castiel, _his_ Castiel, doing anything stupid, like purposefully harming himself… _Right?_

Dean finds himself up the entire night mulling it over, hoping, _praying,_ there isn’t anything going on with the ex-angel because that would require long talks about feelings and the past and he just really doesn’t want to have to deal with that.

As his alarm clock ticks on to the early morning he’s trying everything in his power to justify Castiel’s behavior as something of curiosity and just plain not knowing about things in general; the sun peaked in the sky when he finally feels a small amount of weight lift from his chest, _yes that’s it, Castiel is just ignorant to human life._ He nods in affirmation and throws on a shirt, ignoring the little niggling feeling in the back of his head.

 

_There is so much more going on here._

 

-x-

 

Castiel peels himself up off the bed groggily, looking around at the sun soaked room before gathering his bearings. As he twists his body around to get up he feels a sudden surge of pain realizing, belatedly, his hips have been jostled and are starting to bleed again. The sight of blood throwing his memory back into last night; the way he’d let himself drop so low, be consumed entirely by his feelings.

For an inkling of a second he stares back at the window he’d been ready to jump out of, shivering violently and going towards the door to head to the bathroom. He gapes a moment, trying to get used to the heaviness that held his bones down like ton weights; he feels absolutely drained. Stepping into the small facility he desperately tries to push away the thoughts of last night, the way they seem to press down on him.

Finishing his morning rituals he quickly goes to work patching up his oozing hips, loathe to ruin _another_ of Dean’s hand-me-down shirts again so soon. He works quickly and diligently, despite his bandaged and burnt hands, a talent he’s picked up from so much time with the Winchester’s; he winces at the thought. It’s too easy to let his mind stray to _what if’s,_ too easy to think about how one little thing could have made his life so much different than this pathetic excuse for one; and, _truly_ , that’s what he is, utterly pathetic.

 _What if_ he had not been the angel to drag Dean from the pit? _What if_ he had not taken one glimpse at Dean’s magnificent soul and fallen madly in love with him? _What if_ he had just said _no?_

Castiel sighs, these are futile thoughts, because no matter what, it would always have to end up _here,_ him crushed and broken because his heart is just too damn loud. Regardless, he would never regret saving Dean, that was one of his greatest moments, finally he’d been pulled out, rebuilt and back to his body; Castiel remembers his grace bursting from his chest with happiness and joyously shouting for all the angels to hear,

 

_Dean Winchester is saved!_

 

He’d do it a million times over again if he had to. Even if it meant his ultimate destruction, meant pain beyond anything imaginable, none of that mattered as long as he kept those green eyes shining and alive. Even though he knows after all he’s done, that now he is human, helpless, _hapless_ , an expendable object to the Winchesters and completely _worthless,_ he would never feel _one_ ounce of regret for pulling Dean out.

Castiel knows he is of no use to anyone any longer, that he could just wither and descend into the darkness of his own mind and no one would bat an eye, he _knows_ sooner or later he will be booted, but in this moment he lets himself relish over the good times, as his fingers skim over the wounds of his hip and slowly start to dig in, peering up in the mirror and watching the cascading of tears down his sunken cheeks as the far off sound of Dean’s laughter reverberates throughout his entire being and fills him with an indescribable feeling.

 

 _Yes._ As long as Dean Winchester was alive and well, he could handle being at the mercy of the recesses of his mind.

 

-x-

 

Castiel hears the footsteps of someone approaching his room, but feels too weak to lift himself up off the bed, his stomach feeling hollow in its emptiness, already ceased in growling any longer; it wasn’t expecting anything any time soon. He simply removed his finger from pressing into one of his cuts as the door opens and the silhouette of Sam stands before him; he can tell by how tall it is. He must be taken aback by the dark, dreary room because he pauses a moment, gasping slightly before flicking on the light switch, causing Castiel to recoil, closing his eyes at the harsh change. “Hey Cas… I was wondering if you wanted to come eat something. I made tomato soup… I haven't seen you eat in a while and well you got to keep that up you know?” He sounds conflicted, like he’s talking to an impossible child.

 

_You are an impossible child Castiel._

 

Castiel sighs because he knows he has to keep the facade up of him eating and being generally _okay_ or the Winchesters are going to know something is up. Although he knows he’ll probably be getting kicked out at some point, he doesn’t want it to happen so soon, he barely feels like he can keep his head up most of the time.

“Uh. Yeah. Sure. I’ll be down” Castiel mutters out, collapsing back into his pillow, hearing the relieved sigh of the youngest Winchester, “That’s good Cas.” He walks away and Castiel pulls himself up, his muscles, themselves, feeling weak, too tired to move. His bones felt like dead weights in his skin, which as he looks, he doesn’t have much between the two. His body is just tight skin over protruding skeleton.

He somberly remembers when his bones contained galaxies not marrow, when his veins pumped constellations, not blood. He remembers being magnificent.

He stands up and walks to the bathroom for the second time today, his hair is dull and dry, not containing the shine it once had when he could use his Grace as maintenance. His skin is ashen and if he pinches it between his fingers it doesn’t bounce back like healthy skin should, _dehydration,_ his mind supplies. Though he couldn’t find it anywhere in him to care, to _want_ to keep up maintenance with his body, like showering and drinking regularly.

He runs his fingers along the thin scar on his throat, looking down at the counter and seeing Dean’s electric razor still plugged in near the sink. _Dangerous,_ He thinks to himself, pausing a moment before looking at the bathtub and then to the razor. That would be an easier way to go, he could find an appliance to drop into water with him. It would be quicker and less… _daunting_ than falling out of the window had seemed.

The abyss in his mind swirls around his fingertips, itching for them to move closer, to fill the tub up and ready himself, but it dissipates when he hears a banging from downstairs and the call of _‘soups ready’_. Perhaps he’d do it at another time. One where he could get his bearings together, leave the Winchesters a nice long thank you letter, yes he would work on that tonight. With that he throws on another sweatshirt, one of Sam’s he assumes since it says Stanford and he literally drowns in it.

 -x-

 

Castiel soon finds himself down in the kitchen, sitting at the table, feeling like forever since he’s been there. He looks around, nothing has changed with his inner turmoil. He’d ignorantly thought the place had rotted along with him, darkening with the blackness that poured from the pores of his body. 

Dean walks over, his face brightening when he catches a glimpse of his haggard friend, thankful he’d decided to come down and join them for dinner. “Cas! Man, it feels like I haven’t seen you in forever” his chuckle dies down when Castiel merely gives him a blank look. _You haven’t seen me in a while Dean. You haven’t seen the Castiel you remember in a long, long time._ But Castiel keeps that to himself, not bothering to throw on a smile, just looking at his hands and nodding, “I apologize for making myself so scarce, forgive me Dean.”

There’s a thrumming of tension that blankets the room and Dean’s face falls in a frown, this new, indifferent Castiel almost frightening. Castiel allows himself to recede into the back of his mind, swallowed by numbing darkness as he waits for Sam, who soon comes out with three bowls of tomato and rice soup. Castiel doesn’t notice it’s in front of him till his name is called, he shakes his head, coming from his stupor and looking at two pairs of worried eyes, “It’s ready Castiel.” The man shakes his head, grabbing his spoon, trying to shift the attention from him, “L-Looks…appetizing” he knows it’s customary to compliment someone’s cooking.

  
They sit in silence, the only sound is the scraping of spoons against the ceramic bowls. Castiel finds himself staring into the soup more than eating it, too engulfed in his own head to realize the Winchesters are silently motioning to one another. Castiel feels pain shoot through his hands when he grips the spoon, head flying up at the sound of Sam’s voice, “Hey uh Cas. Hey man, are you doing alright?” Castiel cocks his head, hearing how weary his voice is, like he’s speaking to a mentally disturbed patient. _Perhaps that’s what I am._

Castiel swallows around a spoonful of tomato and rice, shaking his head, trying to get his act together in front of the two boys who have seen him lie enough to know when he’s doing it. “Yes Sam, thank you for your concern but I am just tired. I’ve spent billions of years awake” he tries to force a smile, “I guess my vess-my body is trying to make up for it” he finishes, trying to force the darkness inside him back, just for now, so he can continue to look somewhat okay to the boys.

That seems to be all Dean needs as reassurance because he smiles and laughs, “I can only imagine man” and they continue eating, the two brothers chattering amongst themselves with Castiel pretending to pay attention.

He’d only been planning on eating a little but before he knows it he's peering into an empty bowl, swallowing hard and tasting it on his tongue still. He’d ate it all. How could he? He didn’t deserve such nourishment, how could he allow such…such carnal desires to overtake him in his quest for absolution?

 

_How dare you Castiel? All that hard work? All that so you can stuff your face, you worthless pig!_

He hears the onslaught of _that_ voice reverberate throughout his entire head, loud, _screaming. How could you?_ He drops his spoon in his bowl with a clatter, his stomach churning, rolling like a storm on the high sea. He hadn’t even thought about voluntarily expelling it because his body had already chosen, _involuntarily,_ that’s exactly what he’d be doing. Standing up throws his head into a dizzying rampage, threatening to chuck him off right there. His esophagus quivered as the warm soup began to travel back up and _oh god, oh shit I need a bathroom!_ He throws his hand over his mouth, trying to hold it in, running on wobbly legs to the restroom.

He felt like he’d been running for hours before finally reaching the toilet, his body giving a giant heave, propelling the undigested liquid up and into the toilet. He held the edge of the sink as leverage, body rocking with the force of how violently his stomach was heaving the food out. It seem never ending, tightening in his chest, spewing from his mouth and his nostrils. He vaguely registers feet walking in behind him.

Castiel, stops puking for merely a moment, enough to raise a shaky, bandaged hand up to his forehead before he has to lean over the toilet again and retch. The burning acidity of the tomato soup coming back up making his eyes water.

He doesn't have time to be baffled by his body’s response, that he had not actively been trying to throw his food back up, but, he supposes, his body isn’t used to eating any longer, he’d deprived it so long. _A_ _nd I’ll do it again too._

He sucks in a breath, remembering he isn’t alone in the small space as Dean moves around him, handing him a wetted cloth to wipe his face. When he grabs at it he can feel his hands radiate heat and pain, he could _feel_ them oozing something, most likely infection; he’d been too scared to change the bandages. He coughs, trying to expel the feeling of something in his throat, heaving up more of his stomach acid, “That’s it, get it all out Cas. You must’a caught a bug or somethin’” Dean assures him, cleaning his hands off in the sink, looking over at the _man_ hurling into the toilet. It was a far cry from what he used to be.

Dean can see all the weight Castiel has shed, his cheeks are sunken, and his eyes hollow, collarbone jutting out from his hoodie; _how had he not noticed this before?_ “This why you haven’t been eating?” he wonders aloud, searching the hamper for a clean enough shirt for Castiel. He doesn’t receive an answer, turning to look at Castiel who is dangerously wavering on his feet, face red and veins poking out from straining and Dean is almost afraid he's about to shout,  _Leviathan!_ But he doesn't, just starts to crumble forward, “Ah shit, c’mere” he stops him before he can hit the ground, putting his back against the wall and holding out an old Zeppelin shirt, “Change, this sweater is all puke-y, Sam's gonna flip” he tries to lighten the situation, _tries_ to avoid the dead look in his friend's eyes.

Castiel feels his head pounding against his temples, the cuts on his body burning in what feels like heightened sensation, each one feeling like fire against his skin. He tastes nothing but sour bile in his mouth, threatening to make him sick again, though on what he’s not sure. He grips at the shirt in his hands, not really sure what he should be doing with it. Dean sighs when he looks over at Castiel and the ex-angel can’t help but think how much of a burden he is.

 

_If you were gone Castiel, Dean could be happy. He wouldn’t have to tend to your pathetic self every second._

 

Castiel wants to whimper out loud but he doesn’t, just looks to Dean, wanting to tell him to leave so he can change, but Dean is already reaching out and pulling Castiel’s sweatshirt off for him, “You really not feeling that well?” Castiel’s eyes widen in panic, his hands not wanting to cooperate as he looks into the mesmerizing forest that is Dean Winchester’s eyes. _He’s going to see. He’s going to see how far you’ve fallen, you pig._

“No! NO! Don’t!” Castiel screeches out before Dean can reveal anything, pushing his hands away ashamedly. The hunter looks genuinely surprised, like he didn’t realize Castiel still had any kind of strength left. Castiel is trying to shuffle away but his feet won't comply and regardless, Dean comes closer, eyes suspiciously checking Castiel over.

“Are you hurt Castiel? If you’ve gotten hurt you need to tell me” his voice is gruff and laced with something indecipherable. _Probably exhaustion. You exhaust him Castiel._

Castiel feels something inside of him cry out for Dean. For the hunters brilliant light to come flooding into his own blackened body; Castiel had seen Dean’s soul, had seen the thing shining for miles upon miles. Dean’s soul was magnificent, and he just wishes to reach out and wrap himself in it, hide away within Dean.

So _yeah,_ He’s hurt. He’s _hurting_. So much on the inside that he must make himself on the outside. Just to bare it. And that in itself shows how truly sick he is as a whole.

 

He’s nodding before he even knows what he’s doing.

  
  
Dean’s eyes widen a tad before he starts checking Castiel over, “Where Castiel. Where does it hurt?” He asks him, frantically looking around the angel’s fully clothed body. Castiel can’t help but release an anguished howl, “ _Everywhere_.” And suddenly his legs turn to jelly, dropping him ungracefully, a worthless, muddled heap on the bathroom floor. Dean’s eyes are wide, looking down at Castiel’s extreme reaction, not sure if he should grab the first aid kit or not. Everywhere? He hurt _everywhere._

Castiel feels tears prick the backs of his eyes as Dean kneels down in front of him, a worried look painted across his face. Castiel doesn’t want him to worry. Not to concern himself with the likes of he. “C-Cas, I need you to tell me what’s wrong okay man? Cause I can’t help you if you don’t tell me” he sounds desperate and Castiel lets out a saddened, short laugh, because the pain he feels cannot be healed by lame bandages and ointment, his pain is deeper than the wounds over his skin. His pain is soul deep. Pain that gnaws on your heart and demands to be felt. Pain that ices your organs over, that makes you feel empty and heavy at the same time.

 

Pain that kills you thousands of times, but never lets you truly die.

 

He’s taken too long to respond because Dean is reaching out again, trying to tug at his arm to get his hoodie off, “C’mon, we’ll get you into bed and some pills-“ he stops speaking when Castiel grabs his arm away, curling it against his chest. Dean knows that action, the reaction of pain in a certain area. “Is your arm hurt? Let me check it” He says, grabbing at it again, jumping a little at the almost inhuman sound that spills from Castiel’s lips as he jerks it away once. _Now he has to look._ Dean sits up on his haunches, “Dammit Castiel let me see it! Stop being such a baby! It’s probably just a sprain!” He tries to reason, but Castiel keeps shaking his head and curling into himself, “No! No! NO!” Dean is able to overpower the weak, malnourished man quickly though, clutching his arm in a bruising way and pulling his sleeve up.

Dean isn’t sure what he expected. Wait. Yes he does, a swollen, limp arm, but what he sees stops him cold in his tracks, time stilling for both of the men. So many. There’s _so_ many. That's the only thought he has as his eyes fall upon the jagged, horrific cuts on his best friend’s arm. Some are deep and purple, like they’ve been dug in to. Castiel’s entire body begins to shake, bringing Dean from his silent staring.

"Wh-what have you done to yourself?” Dean’s voice is an octave higher than Castiel has ever heard and he looks like he’s going to be sick; it confuses Castiel, this hunter as seen countless gore and wounds. _Why does he look so pale?_ Dean's eyes are skimming over the marks he has left behind on his skin while Castiel can do nothing but watch him, trembling, waiting for the disgust to come. Instead Dean pulls his arm closer, his other hand coming up to lightly touch the wounds, ghosting over them, and Castiel gasps loudly, because his touch _, it’s better than the razor._

Dean flinches back, worried that he's hurt him, looking up at Castiel with those same panicked, confused eyes. Shaking his head slowly as he opens his mouth, gaping like a fish before speaking again, “Wh-what is this Cas?” He looks to the ex-angel for an answer. Castiel sighs internally, because it’s all over now; pulling his arm down and covering it with his sleeve he looks back up into those brilliant eyes.

“Redemption.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from the song: Devil's Choir by Black Veil Brides. Let me know what you think so far!


	6. You're The One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Castiel becomes addicted to the one thing that makes us human, pain. [Huge trigger warning for being solely centered around self-harm]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there guys! I hate to do this to ya but this is just a filler chapter before I delve into bigger plot because I'm starting college and it'll take longer to write, so I thought I'd give you guys something small. I apologize how horrible it is! PLEASE FORGIVE ME~ 
> 
> As I said before, be patient and in return I promise to never abandon this.
> 
> TRIGGERS: Suicidal Implications, Mentions of Self-Harm, Self Loathing, general angst. 
> 
> Non-sexualized bathing as well! No Beta so mistakes were made (it's also 5am!) I am going to go back and edit!

_You're the one, you are the hurt inside of me, And you are the one that makes me weak_

_Shadows that crawl all over me, Swallow the light that lets me see_

_Have I fallen too far away?_

 

* * *

 

_“Be obedient children. Or this is what will happen”_

 

Castiel chuckles as he repeats it; is not this what he threatened to his kin when he’d so stupidly believed himself divine? _No_. This is what God, the _real_ god, is saying, pointing to Castiel; he’s the example now.

Look upon the fallen, look upon the broken, and you will see Castiel. Wings melted into the ground, Grace dissolved, leaving nothing but arid human fluids. _Look at me angels,_ Castiel pleads, they’re no longer his siblings, _Look upon me angels, and see what happens if you stray._

He forgets Dean is still in the room, staring down at him as if he were a stranger, discovering the cuts he’d tried so hard to hide.

“C-Cas…care to elaborate?” Castiel thinks Dean has lost the strength to be sarcastic, the words are more a desperate tumble of a question. “I think I would like to go back to my room now” That’s what he needed, just to lay down and get some sleep and when he woke up everything would be back to normal.

“Oh no, no, no” Dean tightens his hand on Castiel’s shoulder, pulling him back, “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what the fuck this is all about!” It’s a wonder Sam hasn’t come to check on them, how loud Dean is being. “I told you Dean. Let me go.” Cold. Detached. Dean feels something break inside of him next to this stranger. “Redemption? What does that even fucking mean? You think god would want you to do _this?”_ There it is, Castiel wants to run and hide, beat out of his head the way Dean’s words are so full of _disgust._

 

_You’re disgusting Castiel. He knows how disgusting you are. He knows._

 

The elder Winchester is clutching his arm, pulling the sleeve up again, forcing Castiel to look at the wounds under the fluorescent light. They’re still beautiful to him, no matter what anyone thinks. “You. Will. _Never_ understand Dean.” Castiel spits out, jerking his arm away one last time and quickly walking to his room. “Now, wait just a minute Cas!” Dean yells after him, not catching the door before it’s slammed and locked, “This isn’t over yet!” Castiel can’t tell if the threat is empty or not because everything is swirling around him.

 

_What are you going to do Castiel? Crazy Cas. Crazy Castiel._

 

He gathers a handful of hair and tugs, trying to shake the voice from his ears, “Shut up! Shut up!” The cuts on his body flame, they scream out to him; the darkness gyrates inside of him, beats at his chest, and he feels if he lifts his shirt it will be pushing against his stomach, trying to escape. Just like the souls.

 

_Keep it inside of you. Do not taint the others with what you’re only deserving of._

 

But it’s the quiet voices, the whispers that flit across his lobes that are the loudest, _just let go. Let it out._ The _darkness_. The _blackness_. The _abyss_ in his veins, it needs to be tore out, to be gouged from his body, to spill all over him, and wrap him in a merciful cocoon.

 

_Dean knows. Dean knows. He’ll hate you forever. You pig!_

 

He opens his eyes to a pulsating room, noises flush in and out like he’s underwater, drowning. Oh what he wouldn’t give to be _drowning._ To feel the way water would fill up his lungs, swallow his oxygen and shut down his organs.

 

_They’re not even your organs! You have nothing!_

 

Castiel lets out a hoarse sob, crumbling to the ground, taking his bedside desk with him. He knows his head is right, nothing is his. Not the organs, not the bones, not anything. It’s all just a donation.

He doesn’t have a family, he isn’t loved like Jimmy Novak had been. His head isn’t filled with dreams and ambitions; he couldn’t look back on family gatherings, or the memory of a childhood. He couldn’t bitch about old high school friends. Because that isn’t him. He isn’t human, but he isn’t an angel either.

 

He is _nothing_.

 

His head is merely filled with pain, nagging, unstoppable pain. Pain that he deserves. When he looks back he sees darkness, he sees anger and disappointment. He sees an anguished Dean Winchester as he holds his broken younger brother. He sees blood, so much blood. Albeit, when he looks forward, that’s all he can see as well.

 _Blood_. Pouring from his arms when he finally hits a major artery. _Blood_. Oozing out of his mouth as his stomach finally starts to break down and eat itself.

 

His future is as bleak as his past.

 

And there’s not a damn person that would miss him. Not a person that would visit him in death. No words that could even be written on his tombstone, _what would it say anyway?_ He isn’t a ‘loving father’ or a ‘beloved brother’ he isn’t an anything.

 

He is _nothing_.

 

He could be thrown in the fields and picked at by the buzzards.

 

Castiel places his hands over his eyes, remorse thick in his skull. He’d let Dean see how far he’d fallen, because it doesn’t matter that he’d _literally_ fucking fallen before, it was the fact that he took that and managed to lower himself further; he’d hit rock bottom and just _continued._

That bath, that balcony, that _razor,_ sounded so damn _good_ right now. His body seizing out of control as he feels the zaps of electricity melt him from the inside out, wouldn’t that be great? The crunch of his body as he tumbled all the way down, finally able to hit the concrete, hearing the snapping of his bones, wouldn’t that be fucking delicious? Or driving the razor straight down his milky white wrist, watching as his body pours blood from ripped seams, it all sounded so inviting.

He sat there, reveling in all of the ways he could end his godforsaken, pitiful life, when he hears a slight knock on the door, the incoming of a honey laced voice. The voice that could chase away even the thickest of darkness in Castiel. Oh Dean, _Why do you try so hard?_ Castiel listens though, hangs on to every last word like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, because it very literally is.

“I’m sorry Castiel” The ex-angel wants to howl out in anguish, _what the fuck did he have to be sorry for?_ “Can-Can you just let me know if you’re okay.” His voice is pleading, his voice is desperate, Castiel feels a tightness in his chest that makes his jaw clench, unable to answer. “I’m...I’m just gonna wait here okay? I’ll wait here for you.” He can hear Dean settle down, sitting against the door, waiting. _What is he waiting for?_ Castiel shakes his head, Dean shouldn’t be on the floor for him. Dean didn’t owe him anything; he owed Dean the world.

Castiel can’t even squeak out a response, merely taking himself on his hands and knees, crawling over to his side of the door and sitting against it as well. He can feel it, the warmth on the other side. The warmth that is Dean Winchester trying so desperately to break through and flood inside him. But the darkness, the darkness holds on so tight, its nails unrelenting across Castiel’s throat. Lips purple. Head dizzy. The nothingness owned him. The abyss slithered within him.

 

To allow Dean in would allow it to taint him. _No._ God no. He could never smudge Dean’s magnificent soul with his dirty one.

 

_You’ll corrupt him Castiel. You’ll hurt Dean just as you do everyone around you. You deserve this pain._

 

He nods, placing his forehead against his knees, _he knows._ But god for his own selfish desires, his want, his yearn for Dean to be close. One sin replaced with another, he reminds himself. Lust for gluttony. Pride for wrath. It was never ending.

He would never reach redemption. He could never cleanse his own tarnished soul, the tenacious abyss, he is already too far gone. The moment his heart stopped beating he would be cast into hellfire and damnation, and he deserved it.

 

Deserved every bit of it.

 

-x-

 

Dean wanted to beat his head against the door, no really, just bash his brains in right there for letting Castiel run off on his own to the place where he’d been doing...whatever he’d been doing. He feared closing his eyes, every time he did all he could see is pale flesh and red lines. So deep. So _many._ He tried to reason at first but he is a halfway sane man. He is smart. He knows what they are.

 

_Why? Why had Castiel done it?_

 

Dean feels his heart ache for the man, balling his hand on his knee and shaking his head, wishing Castiel had just come talked to him, tell him things were getting too much. If he had a least dropped some kind of hint Dean was _sure_ he would have picked it up, but that’s when he freezes, biting his lip. _He did drop hints you idiot!_ He’d stopped coming for breakfast, for lunch, for dinner, he’d stopped coming down at _all._ He’d nearly disappeared and Dean had thought nothing of it. Stupid! Stupid! _Stupid_!

He sat there for the next hours, drowning in his sorrow, letting his mind bash him for this, because it really was his fault. All of this. And he doesn’t know how he can fix it. He turns his head and looks toward the darkened door of the bathroom; Castiel should really clean himself up, he thinks, that’s what he could do. He could help Castiel clean up. It was small, but it was a start, maybe it would actually make him feel a tad bit better as well!

He quickly scurries to the bathroom and runs the bathwater, making sure it’s the right temperature before plugging it up and wiping his hands on his pants. He knows Castiel hasn’t showered in a while, and he doesn’t want to envisage why. He just knows what he has to do, he has to be there for him, he has to _show_ him it isn’t all that bad. That he can come out on top of this. But there’s a voice in his head, a little whisper of fear, _he’s so far gone._ “Fuck!” He sails his fist through the wooden wall, placing his forehead against it, “Why didn’t you talk to him?” This is his _fault._ He should have known…

Instead of wallowing he pads swiftly to Castiel’s room, deciding the man has had too much time alone and begins picking the lock, opening the door to find himself looking down at the man on the floor. His eyes had been blue once, Dean thinks, now they’re grey. They’re dead.

Dean can easily pick up the emaciated body of his friend, the man he’d fantasized of so many times, except healthy, glowing, _smiling._ He looks down and sees an ashen face, grey and dry, his eyes don’t look old now, just tired, so... _done._ He shivers as he carries him towards the restroom, ignoring the mutterings of him to just leave him alone. He can’t do that, he’d done it up until now.

Castiel had done a lot of things wrong. But, for all of that, he’d saved Dean and his brother countless times. He’d revived Bobby, he’d taken multiple deaths merely in the name of the Winchesters. Of course he was grateful. Of course he was. And perhaps that’s how he found himself here, tugging off Castiel’s shirt, furrowing his brows at the jutted out cage of his ribs, the pink, raised scars. He traveled down, two sharp hipbones protruded as he shimmied off the sweatpants, hips painted with cuts.

He wanted to cry or scream, he could _feel_ the self-hatred that emanated from the wounds. This was someone who hated themselves to the very core, who felt deserving of ripped open flesh. Castiel had fallen more than he’d ever imagined. His body didn’t even look _real,_ it was thin, waxy skin pulled over harsh bone; no fat, just a shaking mass of decaying calcification that looked as if it would turn to dust if you touched it.

As he helped off his boxers, he carefully guided the man into the water, watching the way his muscles rippled and quivered in the relaxing steam. Dean sat himself down beside the tub, watching the way Castiel’s eyes seemingly stared into nothing, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, a submissive gesture even in the presence of no threat. Dean wanted to shake him, to take his shoulders and scream in his face, _this isn’t you! Castiel, you’re so much more than this!_

Instead he ignored the gouges on his wrists as he takes one of the ex-angel’s hands in his own, carefully unwrapping the dirtied gauze, watching as yellow pus oozes from the dead flesh. The smell alone proved infection. “Oh Cas…” It’s not directed anywhere, simply a sad recognition. Slowly he unwraps the other one, the two appendages an angry, swollen red, the skin is peeling off and oozing liquid. He touches Castiel as if he were glass, too fragile, too pliant, he thinks. He gently cleans the burns, pulling away the dead skin to make way for new, mopping up the rank pus, and then soothing it with an antibiotic, finishing with binding them up again.

When he looks back up he sees tears streaming down Castiel’s face and he doesn’t hesitate to wipe them away, too in the moment to be embarrassed of cheesiness, “Cas-why, what’s wrong?” he asks, afraid he’s hurt him. _Again._

Castiel still doesn’t avert his eyes from staring at the murky water, “Y-Your hands Dean” he chokes out, sucking in a deep breath, shaking his head. Dean is confused. “So much better…” He doesn’t finish, just shakes his head and continues to sob silently, “Okay. Okay, it’s okay now” He nods, moving Castiel’s body so he can clean his greasy hair. He finishes, doctoring up the cuts on his body, looking at his friend’s face and forcing a smile, “It’s all going to be okay now Cas.” But he knows deep inside, gnawing at his gut and leaving him helpless.

 

He knows nothing is going to be okay.

 

-x-

 

Castiel is confused. Confused as Dean bathes him. Confused as he fixes his burns up. Especially confused as he lays him in bed and tucks him in. _What is he doing?_ Dean keeps saying things, saying it’s all going to be okay, but he knows it isn’t. He knows.

 

_You’re worthless Castiel. You don’t deserve his kindness._

 

He avoids Dean’s gaze, tries to push away his gentle touch that seemingly knocks him for a loop every single time. He just pretends it’s not happening, because it’ll be easier that way. Easier on both of them when he’s gone. Because, he knows it, he won’t be around for long.

But his mind wanders still, questioning the way Dean had looked at him. Not in disgust. Not in hatred. But in remorse, in affection. Could Dean hold affection for him? _Impossible._ He knows no one could love something as horrid, as revolting as he. Especially Dean; Dean who is attractive and charming. Dean who is loving and kind. Dean who is _sane. But_ he tries, the way Dean had touched him, his fingertips, bursting with a calming vibration, it resonated through his veins. He’d touched him so intimately.

 

_He was bathing you. Because you’re so gross Castiel he had to physically bathe you, he was obligated. You are filth, no one would ever willingly touch something as revolting as you. Who do you think you are?_

 

Shaken from his abusive thoughts as Dean sits on the bed beside him, tucking the blanket in and grabbing his angel blade from the counter, pleading with him. “Please Castiel, please don’t hurt yourself any more... _please_ ” Castiel almost chokes on his own tongue at how genuine he sounds, but he doesn’t break his facade, just nods, his wet bangs flopping on his forehead, “Okay.” An automatic response, so Dean will leave. He almost, _almost,_ screams when he sees the small smile that crosses Dean’s face as he pats his chest and heads out.

 

_Look at you. Lying to him again. That’s all you ever do. Hurt the ones you love._

 

He shakes his head; he can’t live without his razor. He _can’t_. As pathetic as it sounds, it’s the only thing keeping him alive. He knows if that was taken, if his ability to allow the blackness to flow out and wrap him up, was taken, he’d go insane. Insane with it eating away at him from the inside; its sharp teeth would gnaw and chew its way out, excruciatingly. He _had_ to cut if he wanted any kind of semblance of normality. The razor was the only thing that truly understood him, truly saw what he was going through. He couldn’t give that up.

And it doesn’t matter anyway, Dean doesn’t want him. Dean would never want him. He was just a liability, he had to keep him alive just in case, he could be used as a good pawn. He didn’t mean anything to the Winchester, how could he? How could someone as used and broken as him be the object of anyone’s affection? He merely did not want to deal with having Castiel so unhinged around him, having to watch over him like a child.

Castiel knows what he has to do; He’ll just have to be sneakier, he’ll have to pull up a better guise of being what Dean wanted him to be. He’ll have to hide his wounds better and he’ll have to lie. A lot.

He hangs his head at the thought, even after the revelation that Dean would not care, remorse fills his bones heavy as he pulls the box out from under his pillow, the small savior in his hand in minutes, the metal glinting off the moonlight. Yes, he knows he’s sick. Sick with the thought that Dean could be anything more, sick with the idea that he should feel _bad_ about cutting into his worthless flesh. “I’m sorry Dean” He still whispers to the empty room despite it all, pressing the blade against his wrist

 

He will never be okay.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from song: You're the One by Rev Theory (literally a friggin Destiel song). Again this is just a little filler for you guys since I've been taking forever, please don't hate me at how horridly it's written. It's 5am and I also have tons of med student things to write.


	7. Far From Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Castiel becomes addicted to the one thing that makes us human, pain. [Huge trigger warning for being solely centered around self-harm]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. Am. SO. Sorry for this late delay. As you read, I was in the hospital and it's just been really complicated to get my hands on a few hours to write. So forgive me if this seems dull or poorly written. I just generally do not feel well and I'm sure that will show. I am doing okay though, and a big thank you to all of you that were worried and commented about me getting better. Sometimes the things I write about seem so true because they're really what I'm going through. Sometimes I just need to get a little help once in a while. But I'm okay now. 
> 
> SO this chapter has some Destiel fluff because it's about to get really angsty, like literally the next chapter starts and ends pretty heavily on angst. So enjoy this while it lasts!
> 
> WARNINGS: Suicidal idealization, self harm. But it ends pretty fluffy (don't get used to it though). No Beta mistakes are made

_Another day in this carnival of souls, another night settles in as quickly as it goes_

_The memories of shadows, ink on the page, and_

_I can't seem to find my way home._

 

* * *

 

Castiel was doing better.

 

Which was a total lie, _but_ , Dean didn’t have to know that. He didn’t have to know that Castiel would take the food he left at his door and flush it down the toilet in the form of vomit. He didn’t have to know that Castiel had gotten sneakier, that his hips, stomach and chest were now covered in cuts; _no,_ all he had to know was that Castiel’s arms held no new cuts and the plate was clean when he retrieved it.

Castiel had really tried at first, he’d pushed away the screams in his head and _tried_ so hard to make Dean proud. He would sit and stare at his razor for hours, he would eat the food and push his dresser in front of the door so he couldn’t make it to the bathroom, but it always became too much.

The horrid feeling inside of him was acidic, _corrosive,_ and it chewed away at his composure. The darkness sludged through his veins, pressed against his skin and begged to be released, making it unbearable. The voices became louder, _louder_ than he ever imagined they could be and, for a while, he was afraid he’d end up like Sam had; unable to sleep, slowly withering away with insanity. They abused him, screamed insults at each corner of his head.

 

_You disgusting pig! You don’t deserve to sleep. You don’t deserve anything._

 

He knows that. He knows he doesn’t deserve the sanctity of sleep; that it's for people who could slumber peacefully, who could close their eyes and not see blood and death. So he lay in his bed staring at the moon through his curtains.

 

_Just do it. Just cut yourself Castiel. Bleed as you’ve made others._

 

He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head, Dean had sounded so desperate. Dean didn’t want him to cut. And it didn’t matter if it was because he _truly_ cared or that he saw Castiel as a liability, he just couldn’t shake the way Dean had pleaded with him.

 

_But you’ll feel better. Don’t you feel it? The burning?_

 

God, _yes_ , he did. It felt like a flame underneath his flesh, melting his tendons and boiling his blood. He imagined his insides looked just like his grotesque, charred hands. It was an itch that he couldn’t reach, the subtle twitch of his hands as if instinctively grabbing for something to dig straight into his damned skin.

 

_Don’t lie to yourself Castiel. You like the way it feels. You like it and you know it. You love pain._

 

He did, he would never deny it. The way cutting felt was like nothing he could compare, it was an adrenaline rush much like flying. Taking away the tools used to hurt himself would be like losing his wings all over again. Because after falling, pain is all he has to hold on to. The only thing that makes him truly feel alive; it doesn't matter that he’d faced death (quite literally), been resurrected a million times over, _no_ , none of that made him made him feel as alive as the razor could.

 

Taking away his blades, taking away his ability to inflict pain would be like taking away his humanity.

 

 _Besides,_ He begins, one last resort to convince himself, _if Dean cared so much wouldn’t he be here right now making sure I was okay?_ That’s all the convincing he needs. Giving into the voices, itching to satiate the blackness that beat inside of him.

 

He picks up the razor carefully, as if handling something fragile, clenching his hand around it and letting it gouge into his palm. He wants to, _no,_ he _needs_ to slice away at himself.

 

He _needs_ to let the void out, let it swallow him up and lay him to sleep. Silence the voices.

 

Blood runs down his hand, trickling over his wrist, down his scars and dripped silently to the floor. It held promises. A sweet crimson relief.

 

_Just do it Castiel_

 

He opens his hand and grabs the bloody thing, flipping it over and pressing it against his wrist with new found vigor, squeezing his eyes shut. _Voices_. So many voices. Albeit, Dean’s quickly becomes overshadowed, his desperate pleading blotted out by the seemingly endless screams of torment

 

_Cut yourself open Castiel. Slice it so deep no one can stitch it back up. You deserve to die. You deserved to die._

 

His heart beats rapidly against his chest because,  _it’s so true._ All of those times, _everything._  He deserves to die. And what better way than by his own vile hands, just like all of his brothers and sisters had. His final death at the hands that crumbled a wall, the hands that betrayed a loved one, the hands that _shattered_ heaven; they could do one last act of destroying.

It would be better that way: Sam and Dean could return to their normal lives, be the hunters they were meant to be without having to watch an unhinged ex-angel. Castiel held no purpose to anyone any longer, a waste of space.

 _If only I could give Jimmy back his life,_ He thinks remorsefully, feeling a sting behind his eyes, the wetness building up and falling down his cheeks. He loathe to think about Jimmy, the man that gave everything and received only pain. What kind of monster is he? Doing this to a body that isn’t even his. Taking everything for granted. Jimmy would not have done this, _no_ , he would be overjoyed to have his body back, to _just_ be alive again.

 

_That’s why you deserve this. Just do it. Fucking do it._

 

He nods, pressing the razor down hard, watching the skin dip down with it, scattered whispers through the stillness of the room promised him comfort in the darkness. Slice until the abyss spills out and engulfs him completely, cocoon himself in the thick, numbing nothingness and let it whisk him away. All he has to do is-

 

_“Cas?”_

 

He’s never moved so quickly in his entire life, throwing the razor somewhere behind his desk and ripping his sleeve down over the minor wound. The door opens without invitation, an apprehensive Dean watching him from the other side of the room. Castiel perches on the edge of his bed, folding his arms and setting them in his lap, trying hard not to look suspicious, but, he knows his innocent guise is failing to convince the man across from him.

“Cas. You doing okay? I just came to check on you. I made some dinner so why don’t we head downstairs and grab a bite together. We need to work on getting you out of this dark ass room” he laughs a little, but it’s forced and quickly dies down when Castiel doesn’t reciprocate.

 _Right, I have to be convincing._ Of course Dean would want him to leave his room in his quest to _‘fix’_ him, and it would help to better put up the facade of being well if he did every once in a while.

“Of course Dean. I would love that” He tries not to grimace as he stands and follows a very surprised looking Dean downstairs and to the kitchen. It is unusually quiet, no Sam typing away at his computer, no classic rock music, nothing. So Castiel and Dean sit and eat sandwiches in silence. Castiel wants to ask where Sam is but he finds it too hard to focus on anything but eating at the moment, because it’s becoming harder and harder. The bread is dry despite the mayonnaise, so no matter how much he chews, it seemingly gets stuck in his throat, refusing to go down. He’s only finished eating half of the sandwich before he announces he’s done. Dean looks surprised but, thankfully, doesn’t badger him about it, probably just pleased he’d been able to eat that much.

Castiel was about to retreat back to his room when Dean’s voice stops him, it sounds smaller, more affectionate than he remembers, it _almost_ makes him swoon. “Do you wanna, I dunno chill down here? I found my old guitar, damn that thing-” he smiles, as if remembering, and Castiel takes a moment from wallowing in self-hate to admire Dean and all of his beauty. His emerald eyes staring at the ceiling as if it’s replaying the memory there, his toned chest peeking out from his dark blue Henley. Yes, god yes, he’s beautiful.

Dean looks back down at him, waiting for an answer, to which Castiel says the only thing he can muster up, “Where is Sam?” He hasn’t seen the tall man walking around anywhere. Dean worries his bottom lip between his teeth and then smiles, “He went out on a hunt.”

Castiel takes a moment to register this before his eyes widen, throwing the eldest Winchester a questioning look, “ _Without_ you? W-why?” All too suddenly he feels guilt bubble up inside of him, because it’s probably his fault Dean stayed behind. His fault Dean has to take care of an invalid and leave his brother in danger.

“Eh, he can handle himself, besides, it’s just a routine salt and burn. He needed to get out, stretch his long ass legs” Dean smiles at Castiel, trying to convince him that it’s okay, seeing the distraught look on his face. Castiel still doesn’t believe him, but still feels affection burst through his chest for the man in front of him, no matter how much convincing he did when Dean wasn’t around, the moment he looked into those green eyes everything crumbled.

“So how about it huh? I can show you my shitty guitar skills and then we can catch a movie?” Dean looks hopeful. His eye shimmer with a childlike yearning and Castiel _can’t_ say no to him. So he just nods, anything to keep those eyes shining; he just has to keep the man he loved, who couldn’t possibly feel the same way, company for a few hours. It wouldn’t too hard. Besides, being around Dean made every voice within his head silence, as if too afraid of being vanquished by Dean's brilliance.

 

So he let the darkness retreat for the time being and allowed himself to temporarily be filled with the light that is Dean Winchester.

 

-x-

 

Castiel watches as Dean holds the guitar in his arms, looking down at the taut strings and chuckling a bit, “I learned to play from a man at a hotel we were staying at. Dad was hunting a wendigo and was gone for a couple days, so the man across the hall decided Sam and I needed something to do besides watch TV and wrestle. I don’t know if I can any longer.” He toys with the strings, strumming them one by one and then together, creating a jumbled up, cacophonous noise.

Castiel observes him closely, feeling a smile attempt to grace his lips as Dean focuses solely on the task at hand. His strong arms are flexed around the instrument and his emerald eyes are scanning the strings carefully.

The ex-angel takes in everything he does intently, letting it fill his head and push out any bad thoughts that try to worm their way in; so that in this moment he doesn’t have to feel how dead he is inside, doesn’t have to feel the nagging urge to cut. Just wanting to sit and watch Dean, and he could do it forever if given the chance.

After a moment of toying around Dean actually starts playing, fingering the strings correctly and strumming until the melody flows together beautifully, “That’s it!” He smiles, remembering. Castiel moves himself closer, mesmerized by the motions and the music, it is all so captivating, that is _until_ Dean opens his mouth and starts singing.

Castiel has heard a lot over his billions of years of being alive, but nothing more beautiful, nothing more entrancing, than the voice of Dean Winchester. His perpetually deep baritone actually rises an octave, gliding over each note like smooth honey. They drip into Castiel’s ears and chase out any malicious thoughts that dare try and devour them, resonating throughout his entirety.

 

_Someone's always coming around here, trailing some new kill, says I've seen your picture on a hundred dollar bill_

 

Castiel has never heard the song before, Dean could have wrote it for all he knew, but that didn’t matter, _no_ , nothing did, only Dean’s voice. Dean’s _voice,_ that made him forget the pains in his stomach, that made him forget the burning of his hips, that made the idea of slicing himself open disappear. Made him forget everything that isn’t wholly _Dean._

 

_And what's a game of chance to you, to him is one of real skill_

 

Castiel feels his bottom lip tremble, looking up to see Dean staring directly at him, as if singing _to_ him, which, he realizes, is entirely true when he hears the insertion of a name that couldn’t possibly of been in the actual song.

 

_So glad to meet you. Castiel._

 

It didn’t fit the melody, it made the song drop flat a tad, but that didn’t change Castiel’s feelings towards it, _no_ , it made Castiel choke on his own oxygen, on his emotions, emotions he hasn’t felt in a long, _long_ time. His lyrics are captivating and they nestle deep within Castiel’s belly, chipping away at the ice there. He feels a strange warmth spread inside him, as if Dean’s voice is trying to melt what is frozen; reverberating within his bones and swimming through his veins.

 

_Picking up the ticket shows, there's money to be made. Go on and lose the gamble, that's the history of the trade_

 

Castiel feels the bad thoughts _try_ to break through his reverie, but they are unable to, as if Dean has erected a wall with his voice, stopping anything from hurting him. A flood of adoration for the hunter vibrates in his flesh, makes his ears ring and causes his limbs to shake. _This can’t be happening._ He closes his eyes, but he can’t block it out, _he can’t_ ; all he can do is wallow at the mercy of Dean’s magnificent voice.

 

_And you add up all the cards left to play to zero, and sign up with evil. Castiel._

 

It is like Dean bathing him, tucking him in and begging for him not to hurt himself all at once. Like Dean is reaching out with his words, _trying_ desperately to touch his soul, attempting to wipe clean the tainted mess of blackness within. He wishes Dean could, wishes Dean had the power to break in and make him new, but Castiel knows that cannot happen, that the darkness has burrowed too deep within him, that it could never be sludged out.

 

 _But_ , in this moment, he is okay with Dean just masking it, making it foggy and numb and giving him a false sense of completeness; being able to just _not_ think about it for a while.

 

_I could make you satisfied in everything you do_

 

Dean is looking straight at him again, as if speaking to him in a regular conversation, but this time Castiel’s sees something in those forest eyes, a glint, a shimmer. _Affection_. _Dean_ is _speaking to Castiel as if just having a regular conversation_ ; Dean is letting the song say what he can’t. _Isn’t he_? Castiel waits a moment, listens for the bad voices to deny it so he can throw this insane thought out, the thought that Dean might actually have feelings for him, but it never comes because the voice of the man in front of him is too much stronger. _Is this a sign?_ He wonders.

 

_All your secret wishes could right now be coming true_

 

Castiel feels his throat tighten. _Yes_. He loves Dean. He is _in_ love with Dean. He has been since he laid his eyes on the magnificent soul of his in hell. When he pieced him back together, his greatest accomplishment. He is in love with Dean Winchester and that is tangible, that is truth, Castiel knows that. Whether or not Dean feels the same way is a mystery though, left up to Castiel to figure out, just past his fingertips.

 

_And be forever with my poison arms around you_

 

Castiel moves closer, looking deeper, as if trying, _searching_ , desperately for something. _Anything._ That Dean could save him, that he didn’t need the abyss inside of him to be his cocoon, that _Dean_ could be that for him. It would be a better shell, a safer one, free of abusive thoughts and silver razors.

 

_No one’s gonna fool around with us._

 

Castiel nods towards him, feeling it, the affection flowing from each of their bodies. _Yes._ Dean is here. Dean is real and that is tangible, that is truth, Castiel knows that. Dean is everything good.

 

_No one’s gonna fool around with us._

 

Castiel loves Dean. _That_ is tangible.  _That_ is truth _._  There was no denying that.

 

_No one’s gonna fool around with us. Castiel._

 

And Dean might just feel the same way.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, please remember I wrote this when I wasn't in the best health, so it may seem dull or poorly written. I apologize.  
> Title song: Far From Home by Five Finger Death Punch. ALSO the song Dean sings (has been altered; the name of course) is called Angeles and was actually sung by Jensen Ackles! 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this fluff before the storm.


	8. Author Update

My readers. My friends. My family. 

I don't know if you guys still remember or follow this fic anymore but I just wanted to comment and tell you things have changed a lot in my life. I went through some very hard times, as you know. I was writing this fic based off of personal experience. After a sorrowful college drop-out and careful rehabilitation, I have my life back. And with that being said I want to continue this fic, let you guys know I'm not giving up on it. Cas deserves to recover just the same. 

I have received the most beautiful and heartfelt comments I ever could have imagined on this fic and you guys deserve more. So I want you to know I will take up writing this again. Please be patient with me as you all know the struggle. 

Thank you to those of you who will read on. 

I love every last one of you. 

-Castielchester


End file.
